


mind at ease

by liquidsky



Series: shared [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Steve’s got a theory.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: shared [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679521
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	mind at ease

The most recent iteration of Steve’s usual bullshit seems to be growing some strands, is what he thinks, leaning on his side against his locker and fitfully ignoring the uneven globs of tired students moving around him. He’s sort of craving a smoke, and he feels feverish, an unlikely throbbing on his temples. The back of his legs hurt, and so does his back, but it’s not as if he can pull the plug on the cause of it. 

Across the hall from him, Billy’s got his head resting against his locker, which is kind of nasty, and unhygienic, but Steve’s always guessed these aren’t objections that ever occur to Billy Hargrove at all, so he runs a hand over his own forehead, a brief touch of cold-rolled steel making him shiver. Shrugs it off easily, frowns at Billy’s face and stops breathing for a second, holding _one, two, three_ all the way up to twenty, puffing out a large breath when Billy wrinkles his nose and coughs. 

Steve’s got a theory—a fool-proof one; dangerous, for all that he likes it more than he should. It’s not something he knew until three days ago, and now that he does he feels kind of punitive, less like he’s losing control and more like he’s pushing Billy toward something Steve’s sure he’ll hate. Decision-making’s never been a forte, drowning again and again the sad sort of compulsion he’s felt helpless to stop. Helpless still has _nothing_ beat by a landslide, though, and he’s long decided he’d rather have it than not. Except every time he pushes, Billy pushes right back. Tired, he blinks at Billy’s back, the swollen definition of his shoulders under his faded tank top. He looks tanned, healthier now than he used to be; Steve’s heard enough rumors to know why. Being alone seems to be doing him good, and Steve’s thought about it, lonely Billy, every night, quiet, quiet, Steve the only one around, even if he isn’t really. 

It’s a rush. He watches some more, Billy shifting to open his locker, shoving a hand in more aggressively than it’s really called for. Steve runs his nails down his forearm, not two shits given to how he’s leaving pink, fresh-looking indentations. Billy sighs harshly, face tipping forward. Steve claps a hand down, sound of it startling a few of his classmates, and he smiles at them like _whoops, sorry_ before sauntering up to Billy and pawing at his arm, saying “Looking rough, Hargrove.”

“Thanks,” Billy drawls. Narrow-eyed when he grins, on edge already, too easy. “Looking like shit yourself, princess.”

It’s all impulse, Steve thinks, when he pushes forward into Billy’s space, stretching. “Trouble sleeping?”

It bothered Steve, at first. The crossed-out lines, the sense of _other_ sliding under his skin, carving space with an insistence that was neither welcome nor comfortable. Nowadays, he kind of thinks _knowing_ is leverage enough, and it’s obvious from Billy’s gaze that he thinks Steve doesn’t. When Steve’s honest—surprisingly often—he can admit he’s grown to appreciate it. Billy’s not nearly as punishing as he thinks he is, and Steve’s never enjoyed being ignored. He keeps finding himself fading as it is. 

Steve taps twice on the metal, and Billy blinks at him, all slow. “Don’t think I’d call it that.”

“Yeah?” He pushes, “What’d you call it?”

Billy doesn’t fold. Crossing both arms over his chest, eyes trained on Steve’s face, he waits. Steve gives _naiveté_ his best try, lips parted, holding his ground until Billy’s shoulders drop. “None of your business, Harrington.”

“Just friendly concern, ‘s all.” 

“A regular mister Rogers,” with a scoff and he’s turning away, cold-shoulder and all, so Steve sidesteps him, arm stretching to trap Billy in place. The kind of move that would’ve gotten him a broken nose any other time, but he’s growing into quite the Billy connoisseur, and it doesn’t. 

Doesn’t mean it’s the right move, though.

Billy sprawls back against the locker, hair brushing Steve’s hand, and lets his eyes fall heavy-lidded, too deliberate. Steve sort of bites back a grin, with Billy working him. Billy parts his lips, huffs out a breath—cigarette-sour, warm—and Steve feels the echo of it crawl up his back, a sweet-hot pulse. They’re still far away enough for it to look alright, a nothing-to-see-here nondescript stand-off. What it is instead is a mirror facing a mirror and their endless, swirling reflection. Steve knew it already, a constant awareness of wanting-Billy-wanting-him, that he’s not stupid enough to pretend doesn’t exist, despite his hurting him, despite Billy’s attempts at hurting him right back. 

There’s always something imprecise about the quiet sweeping of hunger under his ribcage when they’re face to face; a stupid–vague layer of unawareness that Steve finds inescapable despite his knowing. It doesn’t last, this time, Billy’s eyes skitter away from Steve’s, not even a second, and Steve roils with bewilderment first, not his, before Billy shuffles to his full-height and the back of Steve’s neck prickles with a heavy feel of inevitability.  


He pulls his arm back, lets it flop down next to his body. Billy looks poised for a fight, and Steve half-braces for it but Billy walks away instead, leaving Steve to blink dumbly after him. 

It strikes him as odd, the stuff he notices—Billy’s jeans second-hand, fabric almost threadbare over the plump curve of his ass. The dip of his lower back, broad shoulders, bed hair even now that it’s past eleven in the morning. A brief moment to wonder about his strolling, and he’s starting after him. 

He walks a few steps behind Billy, not glancing around, opening the car door easily, shuffling down. Fiddling with the glove compartment until Billy slaps his hand away, “What’s with the fucking drowning, then?”

“No clue,” Steve says. Billy levels him the kind of look that Steve’s gathered means he wants to stomp over his corpse, then there’s the bunching of heat on the sides of his own face to match. “Good to lose control, I guess.”

There’s a beat, time stretched elastic while Steve feels Billy probe around his feelings with a focus that’s nearly painful. It’s new—he wondered before whether Billy had, and it feels obvious that he would’ve felt it, if. He goes lax on the seat, knees hitting the panel with a thud, and Billy laughs, finally. “Jesus, you’re a headcase.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve huffs, “What’s with the, uh—” and the gesture accompanying it, wiggling three fingers in the air. A weighty heat settles like lead on his gut, and he can’t tell if it’s him, with the way Billy’s looking at him, eyebrows high and amused. 

“‘This your formal complaint?”

Steve swallows, “no,” and turns to gaze at him, splaying palms over his thighs, “Curious, is all. That for you, or for me?”

“Does it matter?” Billy asks. He glances at Steve’s hands, a quiet wash, summer-soft, and Steve’s caught. Theory confirmed, all cards on the table faster than he thought they’d be, and he’s closing his eyes, fingers curling against his jeans. Billy’s as fast a learner as can be, and it’s not a surprising thought—of on-his-own, adaptable Billy—just _warm_. Steve feels Billy feel it, the slight cold of _oh_ that a faint sort of pleasure stumbles behind. 

He sighs, “it sort of does,” and Billy taps on the steering wheel, still quiet, so Steve fills in the blanks by imagining him biting his lips, pictures a flush.  


“You,” he says, “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

Steve opens his eyes, and there it is. “Exactly in the way I’m thinking,” he tells Billy, “You’re not half as much of a hardass as you think, dude.”

Billy’s squinting is sort of lost when he taps his fingers again, nervous tick or not, and Steve watches him watch him right back, adds, “I’ll quit it. We can—figure something out.”

“Figure something out,” he repeats, “Like we’re such a fucking given.”

There’s a simmer of annoyance clinging to the bottom coat of his craving, and Steve’s over it already. “Aren’t we? No way we’d even be having this conversation if we weren't.”

“Alright,” Billy’s saying, running a hand through his hair, shifting to the side to look at Steve, frown in place, forehead tense, but, “I could probably do worse.” 

And Steve can feel the last trickles of exasperation dry out, so he laughs, easy.

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so!
> 
> this is also _very_ short because words are hard and i'm unbelievably slow these days. this is steve's pov—a lot more knowing than i thought it would be, but it turns out i like steve savvy, and like him even better sort of douchey, so it was hard to resist. i'm also not addressing his obviously shitty mental health and all, mostly because i don't feel like writing angst and attempting to be deep right now. life is hard, we're stuck at home, i'm going back to non-angsty porn next.
> 
> i know i just fully told everyone my life story here (just, like, really long notes, god), but i hope whoever's reading enjoyed the second part of the story! i know i did! kudos and comments are appreciated, as always, and i hope you, reader, are safe and able to find some happiness and solace in these trying times. <3 au revoir! (i don't know french, don't mind me).


End file.
